


the music comes in fits & starts:  a masterpiece in separate parts

by et2brute



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Band Fic, Depression, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:49:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et2brute/pseuds/et2brute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Saw your car a half-mile back," he says, and he's tall and blue-eyed with brassy blond hair and a goddamn perfect jaw. He's built like a—well. Like a farm boy. Like a farm boy wet dream from a rustic GQ spread, right down to the soft, ragged blue jeans and the stupid plaid button-up and the pristine white t-shirt beneath.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Great, please shut up and turn around," Tony says, tilting his sunglasses to peer over at him in actual real life.</i></p><p>  <i>"Uh," Blonde and Muscley tries, and Tony thinks: this is the man I'm going to marry.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the music comes in fits & starts:  a masterpiece in separate parts

**Author's Note:**

> You might notice, when you read it, that this fic is unfinished. If this troubles you, please feel free to finish it yourself. I'll include notes at the end with everything I more or less meant to cover in it, but seriously, if you want to finish the story (or even just write excerpts from the story), post it as a remix/inspired by/etc and they can all link together.
> 
> So yes--peruse the end notes, and do with this what you will <3
> 
>  **On a somewhat related note:** as I've been focusing on original fiction, it is not likely that I will be continuing to update most of the stories here. If you're interested, I share a creative collective with my partner at [war + mercy](http://www.warandmercy.com). Stories, illustrations, poetry, et cetera. If original fiction's not your thing, then farewell and thanks for reading my stories on Ao3!

The last fight he ever has with Howard A. W. Stark, founder and CEO and acting deity of Stark Audio Systems, Tony is seventeen years old. He's down in his workshop putting the finishing touches on a months-long endeavor: building his first guitar from scratch. She's going to be perfect, because Tony's math is perfect, and because Tony has a genius ear.

He's spent a lot of time choosing her base components. Unsatisfied with the commercial glues and lacquers available, he's created his own formula for each (patents pending). Unhappy with the types and grades of wood that have become the industry standard, Tony takes about fifteen straight hours and dedicates himself to biological and theoretical equations. He determines the perfect density and dryness for tonal resonance. He designs a perfect form, the visual and acoustic ideal.

In the end, she takes most of the summer to plan out, and weeks to build. It's his first time, after all.

The fight starts when Howard walks into Tony's workshop and sees his son polishing the guitar's body to a high gleam, his hand running up the long, smooth neck like a lover.

That's not technically true. The fight starts because Tony doesn't notice Howard come in, and after he sets the rag aside, he strums a few full, gorgeous chords with his blunt fingers. It's exactly as he expected, and for a moment he feels an intense wave of accomplishment: he's created a masterpiece. People spend their entire lives trying to craft an instrument like this one.

Not one of them is as smart as Tony, though.

"That's nice," Howard says, and Tony's hands go still. His father is in a charcoal gray suit with tiny pinstripes and a flaring collar. He has his diamond cufflinks on, the ones Maria bought him last Christmas. "Are you repairing it for a friend?"

It's a telling question, the calm before the gathering storm. They both know Tony doesn't have any friends.

"I made it," Tony says. It doesn't even occur to him to lie, because he put everything he had into this.

An hour later, Howard and Maria Stark are on their way to a gala, Tony's precious guitar is in pieces, and his father's angry words rattle and ring through Tony's head like a skipped record, like a song he can't turn off:

_The Starks are businessmen, not goddamned musicians._

_Obie and I built up this company from nothing. I won't let a little shit like you run it into the ground for a fucking popularity contest._

An hour after that, Tony's an orphan. And CEO of Stark Audio Systems. And acting deity of nothing on the goddamned planet.

* * *

Twenty years later, Anthony E. Stark is in a backwater town on his way to a meeting with a new supplier. They're a young startup company with a lot of potential, but they don't have enough money to base themselves anywhere except Buttfuck-Nowhere, Louisiana. They're probably pissing themselves that Tony's meeting with them at all.

The roads are shit the whole way there. Tony drives fast. He is not a local, therefore he does not know the location of every goddamned crater in the road, fuck you very much.

This story might have ended with a flat tire and a furious phone call, but it doesn't—because Tony's phone is dead. Because he was playing Angry Birds on the plane, and his rental doesn't have a USB port for his charger, what the actual fuck.

Instead, it ends with him walking for twenty minutes with his Armani suit jacket over his arm, squinting at the dry dust of the road. Exactly one vehicle passes him by. It's old and beat up and the engine sounds like it has a chest cold. He watches it rumble away.

Then he watches it stutter to a halt. And back up.

And Tony raises his eyebrows at whoever actually stops for strangers, something cutting and ridiculous on the tip of his tongue—

...but it dies immediately as soon as the driver comes into view.

The first time he meets Steve Rogers, Tony says, "Get out here. Come on, come on, chop-chop." The young man behind the wheel looks at him with some concern, but he cuts the engine and, inexplicably, does as he's told.

"Saw your car a half-mile back," he says, and he's tall and blue-eyed with brassy blond hair and a goddamn perfect jaw. He's built like a—well. Like a farm boy. Like a farm boy wet dream from a rustic GQ spread, right down to the soft, ragged blue jeans and the stupid plaid button-up and the pristine white t-shirt beneath.

"Great, please shut up and turn around," Tony says, tilting his sunglasses to peer over at him in actual real life.

"Uh," Blonde and Muscley tries, and Tony thinks: this is the man I'm going to marry.

Then he says, "Your truck is horrible. It defiles the sanctity of human union. You'd better be hiring a limo for the ceremony."

Those thick gold eyebrows shoot up, baffled—but then the face beneath it hardens. "Peggy doesn't seem to mind," he says, his voice slipping into something so neutral it may as well be a flag waving in front of a bull.

"Peggy," Tony starts, and it doesn't really matter what he says next, because another ten minutes pass and the man—his name is Steve—is parking his awful truck, which Tony has ridden in, outside of the town's only auto shop.

"Stay here," Steve orders, and slams his door a little harder than strictly necessary. When he comes back about about a minute and a half later, he gives Tony a plastic baggy filled with ice and those cheap brown paper towels. "For your eye," he mumbles, guilty and red-faced and gorgeous, before heading over to talk to the decrepit old manager about discount tires.

It's the nicest anyone's ever been to Tony after hauling off and punching him in the face.

* * *

"So," Tony asks fifteen minutes later, hip cocked to the side as he leans against his rental. Steve's on his knees in the dirt, switching out the tire. "There a bar in this pissant town?"

"Yeah," Steve says, and Tony's mouth goes dry at the way his arms flex and shine in the sun. He's long since lost his button-up, and his white undershirt is dusty and damp with sweat. Tony sort of wants to peel him out of it.

"How about I buy you a drink? Show my gratitude." As a rule, Tony generally prefers the direct approach; but he doesn't mind the occasional veiled come-on, when opportunity knocks.

"I don't drink," Steve says.

Tony smiles. "Then you can buy one for me."

The truth of the matter is: it's a small town. Decent as Steve seems to be, Tony almost expects another black eye. What he does not expect is for Steve to straighten up awkwardly, wiping damp palms on his thighs. Mutter something irritated, but ultimately acquiescent.

Tony thinks, Huh.

Delighted, he officially upgrades his evening plans from Getting Drunk to Getting Drunk and Laid.

* * *

Tony doesn't remember a whole lot after they get to the bar. He isn't sure if he gets into a fight with Steve, or maybe one of Steve's friends; regardless, he finds himself once more in Steve's awful truck, drunk off his ass with the window down.

"You're unbelievable," Steve snarls, his hands tight on the wheel.

"I get that alot," Tony says, wondering idly whether or not he's gonna throw up. His stomach rolls over; it's a bit sour, but it's not critical. Yet. He probably just needs to go for a walk.

"How can you even—," Steve starts, eyes on the road, but his chin's doing that stubborn angry thing that Tony really wants in on.

He stops talking, though, because Tony's reached over and flipped the radio on. A CD picks up mid-track, flooding the car with piano music and some violins which, okay, the guy likes instrumental crap.

...But then a full, beautiful tenor rises, curling around the notes like watercolor: everything bleeding together into a perfect work of art.

"Why are you listening to—," Tony slurs, and Steve reaches over to turn it off. His face is brilliantly red.

"Jesus christ," Tony mutters, staring.

" _What_ ," Steve almost shouts. They're pulling up to his rundown apartment complex, and Tony's woozy brain is starting to turn, over and over and over, and he's so disappointed he could choke.

"I can't have sex with you," Tony sighs, and Steve almost slams on the breaks.

" _What_?" This time he does shout, but he manages to park the car. "Who said I—"

" _That_ 's you," Tony explains patiently, morose. "You're—what, in the church choir? Big fish in a small pond?"

"I don't know what—"

"You do know that I'm Tony Stark?"

"You said," Steve forces out.

"CEO of Stark Audio Systems?"

This gives Steve pause. Self-consciously, he glances at his car radio—it's Sony.

"It's bad form to sleep with your band manager," Tony laments. "Our love is doomed. We have to do what's best for the family."

"You're drunk," Steve finally says after a stretch of silence. "I got a couch, c'mon." He helps Tony out of the truck.

* * *

Tony is gloriously hungover.

"Coffee," Steve says, setting it in front of him.

Tony's sitting at the small table in Steve's shitty little kitchen, in his rumpled suit, with a killer headache and pins and needles in his belly. Steve turns back to the stove and Tony realizes that the greasy, salty ambrosia-smell in the air is probably breakfast.

"Is there aspirin?"

"No," Steve says, flipping something over on the griddle.

"Vicodin?"

" _No_ ," Steve says. He sounds appalled.

"Huh," Tony mutters, and drinks his water. Steve finishes cooking and sets two plates on the table before taking a seat. Upon closer inspection, everything in his home is actually very clean—it just looks dirty because it's old, and Steve's a poor commoner.

Tony's always wanted to play Prince Charming.

"So that CD," he starts, and Steve's hand goes stiff where he's reaching for his fork.

"It's not—I just," Steve stabs moodily at his food. "I listen to the CDs some of the parents make of our recitals. Figure out what I need to fix, how to get better." He's not looking at Tony. He's _shy_ , and Tony is so, so disappointed that they can't fuck. He could make Steve shameless; he could make Steve beg. "I don't usually have other people listen."

"You'll have to get used to that," Tony says. Thinks, He can cook. I'll be damned. Mister-fucking-perfect.

"I—," Steve pauses, finally looks up. Blue eyes set like clear, perfect chips of sky beneath his worried forehead. "What?"

"I'm signing you," Tony says. Steve looks distrustful and nervous, and also like he maybe really wants this. Awesome.

"What label?" Steve asks, taking a drink of orange juice.

"The Initiative," Tony says. "You won't have heard of it; I made it up just now."

* * *

Three weeks later, in a high-rise in New York City, Tony's having dinner with Pepper Potts. She's VP of Stark Audio Systems, which means she's mostly Tony's second-in-command and kind of a little bit like his secretary.

"You know that band I'm putting together with you as the lead singer?"

Pepper rolls her eyes, beautiful in her blue dress with her perfectly done red hair. "The one you've been talking about for the past twelve years?"

"You know how these things take time."

Pepper smiles sweetly. "I don't recall ever hearing anything about that supplies deal you were supposed to close."

"Got sidetracked. Bigger and better things, you know." He passes the sheet of notebook paper over. "I've been putting together a list of hopefuls."

Pepper sips her martini and scans the names. "I don't know how you think you're going to get these two at the same venue, let alone in the same band. Their antipathy is legendary. And mutual."

"There isn't a better lyricist on the planet," Tony says airily. "And have you heard those guitar riffs?"

Pepper looks pensive. "I'm not saying they aren't incredibly talented. I'm saying it isn't practical."

"I'll make it happen. I'm Tony Stark," Tony says.

Pepper says nothing for moment, sipping her wine, but she doesn't look up from the list right away.

"These two are a package deal. You think you can win them away from Fury?"

"Yes." Tony pushes a bit of food around on his plate. He's waiting for her to ask; she hasn't yet, but she's going to.

Pepper sighs. "I don't know how you could even make this work. This guy—," she points to the fifth name on the list, "—I mean, he's a great bassist. But do you really think he's worth the hassle? The lawsuits? The _mess_?"

" _Yes,_ " Tony says emphatically, appalled that he was ever in love with her. Really, she's so cold. "The bassist is the heartbeat of the band! One little angry outburst and everyone thinks—"

"Tony," Pepper says sharply, "he beat his band manager half to death."

"His band manager was drugging him!"

"Tony—"

"I'll handle it, Potts. Just draw up the contracts."

" _Tony_."

"What-y."

"If you're serious about this—"

"I am," he says, rolling his eyes. When am I not?, he thinks, throwing back the second half of his Chardonnay. He pours himself another glass.

"—how do you expect me to headline a band _and_ run your company?"

"Well. About that," Tony says, but then his phone rings. Normally he'd ignore it, since all his favorite people are in the room with him—all two of them—except, recently, that list may have expanded some. So he checks.

Then he says, "Sorry, I have to take this."

Pepper looks surprised; then, when it's clear that Tony is leaving the room to answer, she looks actively concerned.

"Steve. Hi," Tony says when he reaches the hall. "What can I do for you? You're still flying in tomorrow, right?"

"Mister Stark?" comes Steve's soft, strong voice over the line. It's a shame Tony's in the middle of dinner instead of in the middle of his California-king bed with his phone-sex lube.

"Pretty sure I threw up on your bathroom floor," Tony says, tapping his thumb against his hip. "You can call me Tony."

"Tony," Steve says awkwardly. "Look, I just—I've never done something like this before. Probably didn't need to call you, but. I wanted to make sure."

"It's true, I'm a busy man." Tony murmurs, studying his fingernails.

"If this is a bad time—"

"Never a bad time for a pair of baby-blues like yours," Tony smirks, letting it color his voice. Steve clears his throat stiffly, so Tony takes pity on him. "But look, Steve—you have the plane tickets? You have your bag packed? You have my valuable, rarely-surrendered personal cell phone number?"

"Unless this is an elaborate ruse," Steve admits, "Yeah."

Tony supposes this display of incredibly dry humor means Steve's starting to relax a little. It's a good sign. "This is the real deal, babe. Don't worry about it." A sudden thought strikes him, and he wonders why he hadn't thought of it earlier. "Hey, what time's your plane get in? Five?"

"Quarter after four," Steve says.

"I'll pick you up myself."

"You don't need to do that, I can take a cab—"

"Oh, no," Tony chides. "You absolutely can't. Bad form. So you go ahead and get your ducks in a row—"

"Mister Stark—"

"And I'll get back to my dinner conference date, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Tony," Steve says quietly.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"No," Tony says seriously. "Thank _you_. You're gonna make me the big bucks."

* * *

Steve doesn't have to say anything to Tony to give away that it's the nicest room he's ever stayed in.

"So help yourself to the mini-bar, there's a jacuzzi-sized bathtub for when you have company—"

"Company?" Steve asks, sliding his duffel back off his shoulder and onto the floor. He's wearing a collared shirt and nice jeans and clean boots, his hair parted smoothly to one side like a—well, like a small-town choirboy on church Sunday—and Tony could fucking eat him up.

"Yes. Company," Tony says, hooking Steve's elbow to show him the balcony. It opens up over a busy side-street across from a theater. "You have an open tab at the restaurant downstairs, including booze—"

"Still don't drink," Steve says, irritated.

"—including kiddie cocktails," Tony amends brusquely, "and if you want to fly Peggy up here, we can arrange that, too."

The only reason Tony shuts up is because Steve goes absolutely still by his side.

Tony glances at him, angling his sunglasses down.

"We're not—," Steve mumbles, looking blankly at the marquee advertising a play Tony's never heard of. But then Steve glances at him sideways. "You remember Peggy's name but not that I don't drink?"

"Priorities," Tony shrugs. "I try to keep track of the stuff that isn't likely to change."

"Yeah, well," Steve says, walking back into the room. "You got this one backwards."

* * *

Tony gives Steve time to settle in, to meet with Pepper and go over how all of this will pan out. He makes some phone calls, throws his weight around to set up a few tricky appointments, and swings by the studio three days later to check in.

"Where did you find him?" Pepper asks, eyebrows hitched up under her bangs. Tony glances through the glass to where Steve's singing into a microphone, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration.

He's wearing a t-shirt.

He's not allowed to wear t-shirts because Tony can't look away from his goddamned forearms.

"Side of the road in a podunk town," Tony says, wrenching his eyes back to Pepper's face. "No, you can't have him. No one have him, he's headlining my band."

"I thought I was headlining your band," Pepper smiles, switching on her headpiece and saying, "That's good, Steve. Tony's here."

Steve looks up, startled, a faint flush over his cheeks. Then he presses lips together and joins them in the control room.

"You're too busy managing my company," Tony tells her. She rolls her eyes and he adds, "What are you working on?"

"R&D. I was using him as a guinea pig to test out the new Iron Man mic," she says, smiling at Steve as he shuts the door behind him. "But he just sounded so good I thought I'd forward some samples to Marketing."

"Do that, but find a way to tie it in with our first single."

"What's your timeline?" Pepper asks, removing her headset. A strand of hair comes loose, and Tony leans over and tucks it behind her ear.

"Four months," Tony says. He turns to Steve, who looks away quickly. Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Do you have a single yet?" She asks.

"No, but we will. Soon. It'll be so sexy, Pep, just you wait."

"Good luck with him," Pepper says, reaching up to squeeze Steve's shoulder. "I apologize in advance for everything."

Steve watches her go, and Tony wrinkles his nose. "Oh, no. Off-limits, Blondie."

"She your girl?" Steve asks softly, hands shoved in his pockets. "She's beautiful."

Tony straightens his tie. "Strictly speaking," he replies, "yes, she is very pretty. Come on, we've got a meeting to go to."

* * *

The meeting is in Miami, which Tony possibly should have mentioned to Steve before they got to the airport.

"Where are we going?" He asks, hands restless on his thighs in the passenger seat.

"Private jet," Tony replies breezily. "Expensive dinner with our bassist."

Steve narrows his eyes. "We having dinner _on_ your jet?"

"Are you kidding me?"

* * *

Bruce Banner is everything Tony dreamed he would be, small and rumpled and fucking brilliant when you get him talking about technical acoustics and audio foundation theory and the difference between an instrument and a goddamned extension of your soul.

Tony nearly spills his drink when he finds out that Bruce designs all of his guitars, even if he outsources the construction. That is something Tony is determined to change.

"We can design one together when we get back," he says excitedly over a blueberry torte, and Bruce's smile falters.

"I'm not signing with you," he says, with what seems to be genuine regret. "I have too much going on right now."

"Professionally? I'll buy out your current contracts," Tony insists, taking a deep drink of his ruby port. It's sweet and heavy on his tongue, coils down into his belly like slick flame.

"Personally," Bruce clarifies, pushing his pasta around on his plate. At least now they're getting to the meat of the issue, which is awesome since Tony's nothing if not a fast-talker. He could sell goggles to a blind man.

Steve, who's been largely silent during dinner, looks between them. There's a question in his deep blue eyes that Tony can't begin to decipher; sincerity is a language Tony has trouble with on an intimate level, and anyway he's had a lot to drink. So he turns back to Bruce.

"Buttercup," he implores, "I don't give a rat's ass that you decked Ross, he was a prick and a half—"

" _Tony_ ," Steve interrupts, scandalized.

"What? 'S true. And Bruce, I know you can get by on remote mixes, you do amazing work, but I've never heard you play as brilliantly as you did when you were with the the Thunderbolts—"

"If he doesn't wanna join, you can't make him," Steve hisses, and Tony turns to him again with narrow eyes. In another life, he'd snatch up passion like that and ride it into the mattress. But, priorities. Even if he can't quite remember what, exactly, they are.

"He needs an audience," Tony says flatly. "He needs the stage. Back off, Rogers." To Bruce, he says simply, "We can handle you."

Bruce's lips are pressed together in a thin line. Tony slides his dessert across the table. "Better, we can take care of you."

Bruce looks at the torte for a long moment. Then he slices off a piece with the edge if his fork. "I can't make any promises, Tony," he says slowly, taking a bite. "I'll need an open contract."

I've got you, Tony thinks brightly. Once he figures out the angle, he's unstoppable: he has Bruce's number now. "You won't regret it, tootsie-pop. You won't be tied down. You can duck and run anytime you like, but I promise you won't want to."

Steve stares moodily into his iced tea while Tony and Bruce go on about wood curing over a few martinis. He's cordial enough when Bruce excuses himself, smiles in way that makes Tony's belly roll over. But as soon as they're alone, his friendly demeanor evaporates.

"You're a goddamn bully, you know that, Stark?"

"I'm prepared to pay him tons of money to do what he loves," Tony points out. "Which, coincidentally, he happens to be _really fucking good_ at. Hell, even his bad press should draw in some good press. We'll make bank." He takes a sip of his after-dinner brandy, rolls it around in his mouth. " How's this not in everyone's best interest?"

"He wasn't comfortable with it." Steve's glaring at him now, hot and heavy. The slice of blueberry torte Tony'd slid onto his plate earlier remains untouched. "You don't respect anybody, do you?"

"I have a healthy respect for talent," Tony snaps, steady and sharp even as the room lists vaguely to one side. "And for what I do, which is music, which I'm brilliant at, which you aren't involved with except in purely auxiliary terms. So can it, Rogers."

"You're unbelievable," Steve snarls, and he actually pushes up away from the table. Like anyone walks away from Tony fucking Stark.

"Think we've covered that," Tony bites out, and he moves to stand, too. Except this time he can't mask the way his words run together, and he has to brace his weight on the table before his legs slide out from under him.

There's a rattle of glass and fine china, and Steve's hand cat-quick and strong at his elbow. Tony doesn't look at his face, but hears him ask for the check.

"Damn alcoholic," he mutters, hauling Tony flush against his side once the waiter explains dinner can be charged to room. The heat blindsides Tony, the sharp smell of laundry detergent and Steve's cologne. So he misses what Steve says next.

"Gonna have to repeat that, babydoll," Tony mumbles.

Steve only shakes his head and leads him over to the elevator.

* * *

All Tony can remember is cool porcelain against his cheek, sterilized the way you only get with five-star hotels, and careful hands tugging off his jacket from behind. They reach around to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt, slow so he doesn't have to move his head.

There's the smell of bile and running water, brief heat at his back. Rough palms smoothing over his hair, a damp towel on his mouth, soft sheets. He wakes up to a pounding headache and an empty room, a cold glass of water and—Vicodin.

* * *

"You really gotta drag me around like this?" Steve's grousing a few days later. "Miss Potts had some paperwork—"

"Miss Potts," Tony says firmly, propping open the door and ushering Steve inside, "is not authorized to sign you to any legally binding contracts without my express consent, presence, and supervision. Stark," he mentions to the receptionist.

"Welcome, Mister Stark," she says immediately, flashing a bright smile. Her hair is pale gold, and there's something shark-like about the way she takes him in. Tony's mildly intrigued. "They are ready for you in room two-twelve."

"Thanks," he says easily. "Anything I should know going in?"

"It's a bit rough in there," she admits with half a shrug of one bare shoulder. Tony eyes her clavicles thoughtfully. "Which, all things considered, is probably the best-case-scenario at this point."

"Good thing I like rough," Tony murmurs, pitching his voice low. "Though I don't mind gentle from time to time." To her credit, the receptionist doesn't blush—but she does hike up one thin, dark eyebrow. Tony leaves her his card.

"What was that about," Steve asks, irritated. His arms are stiff and folded together as Tony nudges him toward the meeting room. The only time he moves is to knock away the proprietary hand Tony settles on the small of his back.

"She's my date for tonight," Tony grins, shooting Steve a wink.

Steve does not grin or wink back. Steve frowns deeply. "No, I mean. What's the story with the guys we're meeting?"

"Long," Tony sighs, and opens the door.

There are two men in the room. Neither are sitting at the meeting table, which isn't half as bad as it could have been. Tony studies them speculatively, realizes he's been operating under a slight misapprehension. One he can very plausibly use to his advantage.

"If you do not have a _very_ good reason for this travesty, Stark," the thinner of the two murmurs in lethal tones, "I swear I will have you killed."

"It's wonderful to see you, too, Loki," Tony says easily, extending his hand. Loki stares disdainfully at it. "How's Asia working out for you?"

"Foolishly," Loki replies. "It matters not what drivel I spout. As long as it is English, they swallow it wholesale."

"So you're dealing in drivel now," Tony remarks.

"You know better," Loki snaps, and beneath his anger Tony finally sees a flash of anxiety.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" He turns to the other man in the room, who's bigger and blonder even than Steve. Tony's never had the pleasure of meeting him, but he's heard the stories.

"Mister Stark," Thor says, coming forward. Tony's seen him on stage, broad and fierce with his head back, relishing the spotlight and flooding the whole goddamn arena with the flashfire of his charisma. But in here, he's reserved. Reticent. "It is an honor to meet you."

"Possibly," Tony says, looking up at him critically. "Who are you playing for these days?"

"Sif and the Warriors Three," Thor answers, even though Tony already knows and Thor _knows_ he knows. But, business.

"I want you to play for me instead," Tony says firmly, clapping a hand on Thor's shoulder. It's solid and unyielding under his hand. Way to make a guy feel inadequate, right?

Thor's eyes cut over to Loki for a few bare instants. "Sif would not be pleased," he says carefully. "We have been together for years."

Loki snorts, and Thor's eyes go ugly.

But then Steve asks curiously, "You're a writer?"

Loki turns to him, surprised. "Yes," he allows.

"Anything I'd've heard?"

And this is why I bring you along, Tony things beautifically. So wholesome you give people cavities. Disarm them by taking their fangs away.

While Loki's occupied with Steve, Tony leads Thor into the hall. "I'm sorry I had to arrange this meeting the way I did," he says bluntly. "But you guys haven't spoken for—what, three years? Five?"

"Four," Thor murmurs sadly. "He will not see me."

"He better get used to it," Tony says. "I'm signing you. I'm signing him as our lyricist."

Something like hope surfaces in the vast oceans of Thor's eyes, but there is no weight behind it. "He would never."

They both look up as the bright, golden tones of Steve's voice drift out toward them, shaping words like smoke, buoying them, coloring them until nothing else is real by contrast.

Tony peeks inside. Loki watches, transfixed, as Steve sings a couple of stanzas from one of his last-season radio hits:

_There's a version of this where I meant what I said_

_and I never lost sleep in that big, empty bed._

_Where I altered my heart by degrees to commit..._

"That I no longer love you." Steve finishes. "I made myself quit."

"Stark," Loki barks. "This had better be worth it."

Thor sucks in a breath like maybe he's been allowed something, but Tony's too busy meeting Steve's eyes across the room. He commits to memory the faint flush of his cheeks and the way his hair flashes gold in the dull, fluorescent lighting. "Isn't it already?" He murmurs.

* * *

Tony puts them up at opposite ends of the same hotel. They can seek each other out if they feel like resolving any issues, but they'll still have their space.

Tony's not a psychiatrist, and he'd be the first person to admit that sometimes people just have irreconcilable differences. But he's also keenly aware of the fact that you can't get around a misunderstanding by ignoring it—he tried that for years. All he ended up with were dead parents, which made it too late to reconcile anything.

"You in a hurry to get back to the studio?" Tony asks, glancing over at the passenger side.

Steve's staring blankly out the window, a sharp line between his eyebrows. "Why? You wanna get drunk and throw up somewhere else?"

Tony thinks, What the fuck is your problem now? Tony says, "It's always nice to have a change of scenery."

"Those guys," Steve says stiffly, shooting a sharp, frustrated glance in Tony's direction before looking outside again. "They didn't wanna be anywhere near each other. You set 'em up. Why?"

It's started to rain in fits and starts, and Tony's automatic wipers can't nail a perfect rhythm. Every time they squeak, he feels it in his bones like nails on a chalkboard.

Tony could say, You have no idea how brilliant they were together, back when Loki sang _and_ wrote; back when Thor was a god on the stage, back when you could put the two of them together and expect entire tours to sell out within _hours_.

He could say, There's never been a more perfect harmony, you've never heard music twist in on itself until it becomes fucking _magic_.

Instead he hits a few buttons on his radio, pulls up the twenty-eleven _Asgard_ album and lets it play. Within minutes of the first track— _Your Equal_ —he can tell Steve's hooked.

So he says, mildly spiteful, "Money, honey. Why else?"

The little bit of warmth and wonder that has crept onto Steve's face vanishes.

Tony kind of feels like shit.

 _I know what this will look like, I know how this will sound. But all I ever ever wanted was to meet on even ground_ , fills the silence.

Tony clears his throat and asks, "Want to grab lunch?"

He thinks Steve will say no, and Tony doesn't deserve anything better. But in the end he just shrugs. "All right."

* * *

They end up at a cheap burger joint that makes Tony feel overdressed—which isn't such a problem—and completely unmistakable, which might be. But Steve looks comfortable, even relaxed, even _happy_ with his double-patty-whatever-with-everything, so. Tony just ignores the stares and excited whispers. It's not like the place is that crowded. Yet.

"So how's New York treating you," he asks, 'cause he's got nothing else he's ready to talk about with another human, and _showing interest_ is kind of like an apology. Since he was kind of being a hurtful dick.

"I lived here for a few years before my ma died," Steve answers nonchalantly, and Tony's head snaps up. He hadn't known.

Actually, now that he's thinking about it, there's a lot he doesn't know about Steve. He starts to compile a mental list. _Dead mom_ and _stops for broken-down motorists_ and _voice of the highest choir of angels_ sit right at the top.

"After that, I moved south with my grandmother." Steve wipes at a bit of mustard on his mouth, and Tony thinks, He's got really fucking great bone structure. "Drove by my old neighborhood. It's different."

Perfect hands, angular and strong. Shoulders that would make a eunuch salivate.

"There was a corner store me and Bucky used to hang around. Bucky was a friend of mine." Steve ducks his head, crams a few french fries into his mouth.

So there's a friend named Bucky. And Steve doesn't drink. And he has startlingly blue eyes that make Tony's stomach tighten, and there's some girl named Peggy that's worth a black eye.

He never did iron out exactly who she is.

"You even listening?" Steve asks sourly.

Tony shakes his head. "Raptly."

Steve looks away, looks back. Opens his mouth like he has something else to add, but then Tony's phone rings.

Tony glances down. "Conference call. Give me ten minutes, 'kay?"

"Fine," Steve says, his huge body angled in on itself. There's an angry tension along his shoulders and the curve of his back, but Tony doesn't have time to figure out what's got his panties in a twist this time—the last piece is about to fall into place.

"Figure I'll sweeten the deal if you keep me waiting?" Tony answers, leaning back in his chair.

"Mister Stark," comes a cool, feminine voice. "I'm sure you're aware that our label isn't interested in a collaboration." There's a soft pause, the rustling of exactly two sheets of paper in the background. Tony hears each of them distinctly. "I believe you have been informed of this personally via email, fax, post, and two separate representative meetings—"

"Always a pleasure, Miss Romanov," Tony breaks in. "Have you packed your bags yet?"

"You weren't lying, 'Tasha. This guy's a real bastard about taking no for an answer," comes the second voice, amused. Barton.

"It gets better. Come work with me," Tony grins widely. Across the table, Steve picks at his straw and pretends not to listen. Tony stretches out and bumps their feet together, but the blonde doesn't look up from his staring contest with the cheap formica. Whatever. "I know Fury's not one to let his minions branch out and explore. I am. Leave the puppetmaster and become real boys."

"You hear that, Clint? He'll let us wear something other than black."

"Hey, I talked Fury up to purple last year!"

"Accents. And it was too dark to see in the audience anyway."

"Guys, you can wear whatever the hell you want," Tony says. "I don't give a shit, as long as you produce."

"We can't collaborate with you outside of our brand image," Natasha says firmly. "I don't know who you're working with right now, but 'goth punk' probably isn't their cup of tea."

"We'd've heard of them if it was," Clint adds.

"We'd have stolen them right out from under you," Natasha tells him.

"I don't doubt it," Tony says easily. "But you don't need to do goth punk. I don't want a collaboration."

"Then _what_ —?"

"I want to buy out your contract and sign you to my label."

There's a beat of silence, then Clint says, "Nat—"

"We'll call you tomorrow, Stark." Natasha says firmly, hanging up.

Tony sets down his phone, pleased as pie. "We got it, baby."

"Swell," Steve says, stabbing at a french fry.

"I was thinking we could stop by the studio tonight," Tony goes on, drumming his fingers on the table. It's starting to come together in his head, the shady depths of Loki's brooding lyrics and the bright, earnest flash of Thor's raw energy onstage; the perfect point between fury and serenity that Bruce works into every chord, and Natasha's fierce, precise rhythms. Clint's faraway riffs that target you like a fired shot.

And Steve, his goddamn _voice_ , the crowning fucking _jewel_ —

"Thought you had a date tonight," Steve says gruffly. Since apparently he finds sex a loftier aim than being the _brilliant hand of creation_. Or maybe he just doesn't want to hang around Tony more than he has to.

Which is ridiculous, it's not like Tony held a gun to his head. It's not like Steve has to do anything on this fucking planet he doesn't feel like.

"You have something to say to me?" Tony finally asks, sitting up a little straighter.

Steve stares him down with an intensity Tony can't begin to translate. But then he looks down at his plate again and says, "No."

Tony drags out his phone and speed-dials 'two'. As soon as the call connects he says, "Hey, Pep, can you come pick up Steve? Trashy diner on seventh and Wesson. I have a date tonight." He doesn't wait for her to answer, just hangs up and throws a fifty on the table.

"That's—"

"Smallest bill I have on me," Tony says flatly, getting to his feet and smoothing out his suit collar. "Have a nice evening, Rogers."

Steve gets up too, startled. But he doesn't follow him out.

* * *

By the time the receptionist gets around to texting him, Tony's been at the bar next to the burger joint for an hour and a half. Specifically, it's three highballs and two furious voicemails from Pepper later, and Tony's pretty sure he shouldn't drive anywhere. Even for a hookup.

He doesn't remember communicating this, but twenty minutes later the creaky door swings open and a pretty blonde slides onto the barstool next to him.

"I see you're every bit as classy as the media makes you out to be," she says dryly. She's wearing blue jeans, pink stiletto sandals, and a sleeveless silk blouse. Her earrings are tiny silver sand dollars, and her hair's in a ponytail. She's probably not on a date.

"Everhart," she reminds him. "Christine."

"Stark," he says tiredly. She rolls her eyes, but flashes him that same shark-smile. When she leans forward to order a screwdriver, her collarbones flash under the dim yellow lights. Tony reevaluates his initial assessment: it's pretty warm out, after all.

* * *

"I've never met a man," Everhart says later, leaning against the counter in a hotel bathroom, "who was an actual, literal caricature of himself." There's a faint clink as her elbow bumps against a couple of empty beer bottles.

She throws him a towel before she leaves, but later Tony finds a pillow and a blanket from one of the beds bundled up on the counter, out of the line of fire.

He falls asleep with his cheek against cool tile and dreams of a dead man. They have a conversation they don't get to finish, and when he comes to with a splitting headache and vomit on his collar, there's a very real part of him that wishes he never woke up at all.

* * *

The rain's coming down like a battering ram a week and a half later when Pepper tracks him down in his office. He figured he'd be safe, that it's the last place she'd come looking for him, but luck doesn't appear to be on his side today.

"Nice to see you coming to work," she says sharply. "You do realize that I'm sitting on five separate contracts waiting for your signature. Contracts you've been trying to get for months."

Tony clicks things on Facebook and tries to look busy.

"I'm running out of excuses for them, Tony. Do you have any idea what it looks like, jumping through hoops to get artists like Banner and Odinson on board and then pulling your radio silence bullshit as soon as we start processing the paperwork?"

When it becomes clear she's not going anywhere without direct interaction, Tony closes his laptop. "So sign them," he says.

"This is your baby," she reminds him firmly. "You don't get to lose interest halfway through."

"I haven't lost interest—"

"Shut up and sign these papers," Pepper tells him. "I don't know what's going on with you, but we don't have time for it right now. We're unrolling the new Iron Man mics in six weeks. You have two weeks to get me a single, or you're going to miss your joint-marketing opportunity."

Tony just looks at her.

Pepper looks back, but something in his face must concern her deeply. She sighs, softening, and crosses her arms. "Tony. What aren't you telling me?"

He doesn't want her to know, wants to keep it secret and close. But it just slips out, probably on account of the double scotch he had for breakfast. "I had a dream about dad."

"Again?" Pepper asks quietly, lines of worry tracing the freckles between her eyebrows. They pinch together like tiny orange stars.

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to call someone?"

There are three world-renowned therapists on Pepper's phone with qualifications as long as the alphabet, and Tony knows she communicates with them regularly. They probably have group meetings. Tony's difficult because he's rich and irresponsible and also a genius, but they're good people. If he had five minutes to spare, he could even remember their names.

He thinks about it for a minute: the serene, comfortable offices that always smell familiar; the intelligent concern on the face of someone who's maybe almost as smart as Tony, who might be able to help him.

Paying that person to give a shit. Tony sighs shallowly. "Don't worry about it, Pep. Did you bring a pen?"

* * *

At Pepper's insistence, the home base for their _band practice_ would be, for the time being, Tony's family home.

"It's isolated," she'd said. "You have all the equipment you need, and this way your first few sessions won't leak to the press. Because they're going to be awful."

Tony'd argued with her. He hated the mansion. But, walking through the door the next morning—and less than half an hour late, even—he figures it's not so bad if there are other people around.

"Hope you guys had a great holiday," Tony says loudly, taking in the shiny new members of his very own band. "Let's get started. Show me what you got."

Pepper's not wrong. She's so not wrong that Tony's too busy and frustrated to even manage a modicum of depression for the next four hours.

Loki provides them with a sheet of verse, half thoughtful prose and half filler, but Bruce goes too low and Natasha goes too fast for it to mean anything. Clint's erratic and nervous around the chords while Thor comes in slow and somber, and Steve can't stick with a melody to save his goddamn life.

Around noon, Tony breaks for lunch. "Order whatever, there's some takeout menus on the kitchen table. If you're going out, be back by two." Then he promptly departs the premises in favor of a bar.

Only he doesn't make it, because there's a short, hair-hairlined man in a suit at the front door. His hand is raised, as though he was just about to knock.

"Mister Stark," he greets cordially.

"Hi," Tony says, frowning. It's a very nice suit. Too nice for a member of the press, well-cut, but without any flash someone in the industry might wear. "Are you looking for Miss Potts? She handles the—whatever you are."

"Regrettably no, though it would certainly be my pleasure to work with her. I'm actually here to see you."

"Oh. Well, look, this isn't the best time—"

"On the contrary, I believe you're quite available for the next couple of hours. I have some minor contractual information to go over with you."

"Contract—wait, how—?"

The man extends his hand. Tony, bewildered, takes it. "I'm here on behalf of Miss Romanov and Mister Barton. I'm their agent. Coulson," he informs Tony cheerfuly. "Phil Coulson, at your service."

**Author's Note:**

>  **Tony** would have loved to be a musician, but daddy issues destroyed his dreams. He self-medicates with alcohol and the occasional therapist session. He gets really excited about projects and then lets them fall to the wayside: fear of achievement when it comes to things he really cares about.
> 
>  **Steve** was in the army for four years. After he got back, he sang in the church choir, but otherwise rarely left his home. I don't know what the story is with Peggy, if she's his age or she was a commanding officer, if she died or is still alive. Steve does slowly fall in love with Tony, but because Tony flirts with literally everyone, Steve has no idea if Tony feels the same way.
> 
>  **Loki** and **Thor** were partners, but had a horrible split and did not talk for years. Implied relationship: they could have been lovers, or they weren't and Loki wanted to be, and Thor was just oblivious. Loki is largely acidic to everyone, and avoids Thor where he can. In private, he takes pills to force his brain to turn off. He ends up running out after a confrontation with Thor, who wants to repair their relationship; Loki's on drugs, and mentally unbalanced, and ends up accidentally crashing into Coulson, who was on his way in to the band's hotel.
> 
>  **Natasha** is super animated and affectionate toward the audience when she's on stage, but with close friends she is very subdued and expressionless; she doesn't have to pretend or put up a front. She's the embodiment of the phrase, "one female drummer is worth five male guitarists". At some point, the press catches her as her no-frills self and writes about how much of a bitch she is.
> 
>  **Clint** doesn't have a lot of content/character work done, just that he and Natasha freak out when Loki hits Coulson.
> 
>  **Bruce Banner** is super hard to work with and prefers to be alone. He's very, very touchy about people treating him unfairly (he was being drugged unknowingly by one of his managers to get him to "loosen up" on stage).
> 
>  **Pepper Potts** and Tony had a thing for each other--at alternating times. They never quite managed a romance, but share a fierce, platonic bond. If Coulson doesn't die in the accident (or the hospital), they will probably start to court each other.
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  **Misc. Scene Sketches**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  **re: Tony bullying people into joining his band** , but also about Steve in the war.
> 
> “I didn’t wanna kill anybody. I just... didn’t like bullies.”  
> “And now?”  
> Something overly complicated passes over Steve’s mouth. It isn’t a smile. It isn’t unhappy. It’s another thing Tony would like to examine up close one day. “There’s bullies,” he says slowly, “and then there’s the hard push at your back.”
> 
>  
> 
> **re: Tony is confusing and sends mixed signals**
> 
>  
> 
> “Anything for you, sweet lips. Now get out there and make me some money.”
> 
>  **re: Loki** , and also about Tony realizing that all of Loki's lyrics are about Thor, and Thor’s guitar riffs and solos all have the same aching, longing quality
> 
> “Is there a problem, Stark?” Loki asks when Tony slides the crisp printout back across the table.  
> “No,” Tony says firmly. “As always, your work is fantastic.”  
> “Then why are you still here.” Loki’s eyes snap up irritably and Tony studies his drawn face, the smudges under his eyes and the bitter twist to his lip.  
> “You need to sing this song,” Tony says at length. “This is all you.”  
> “Absolutely not.”  
> “This isn’t negotiable.”  
> “I don’t threaten,” Loki snaps, shoving to his feet and away from the glass-top desk. “But you are not in a position to offer ultimatums.”  
> “I don’t want to replace you, Laufeyson. But this is important.”  
> Something changes in Loki’s face: the anger siphons off slowly, and finally he looks away. “I will consider this. Leave me.”  
> Tony smiles perfunctorily and thinks, Check.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> **Misc Song Lyrics**
> 
>  
> 
>  **untitled** (undesignated)  
>  I have faith in a few good men  
> but it’s not a path I’d take again.
> 
>  **untitled** (old Nat/Clint song)  
>  ‘Til such a time as the world ends  
> we’ll let it spin, we’ll let it spin  
> 'til such a time as the world ends  
> I'll let you in, I'll let you in
> 
>  **No Throne (Loki)**  
>  There’s a time and a place but it’s never enough  
> And it’s hard to make love when we handle so rough  
> And it’s hard to forgive when I’m perfectly wrong  
> When I hate that I’m weak. When you’re perfectly strong.
> 
>  **untitled (Clint)**  
>  And maybe I made a different call  
> But it’s all on that you're here at all  
> You ain’t a kid who'll run and hide  
> 'Cause a door might open from another side


End file.
